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Now the sun is departing with lingering smile,
He sinks in the billows to rest;
How soft are the colours which glow on the pile,
How bright are the clouds of the west.
I could fancy that here to the melody sweet,
Of the tabor, the pipe, and the song,
By moonlight the fairies of Oberon meet,
And trip in the dances along.
In these mouldering towers by the mild placid beam
That silvers the high waving trees,
The poet might listen in fanciful dream,
To the sighs of the murmuring breeze.
'Tis mournful to view these deserted old halls,
Where the harp of the minstrel has rung;
Where the banners of chivalry wav'd on the walls,
And the bards at the festival sung.
But the turrets o'ermantl'd with ivy around,
Shall echo to music no more;
No longer the chords of the harp shall resound,
And the carol of gladness is o'er.
These walls have been deck'd with the trophies of state,
This building was noble and proud;
But short is the sunbeam of fortune and fate,
Like the rainbow which shines in a cloud.
